


it was always about the music

by sapphire_child



Category: Lost
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-10
Updated: 2008-04-10
Packaged: 2019-01-19 09:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12408069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire_child/pseuds/sapphire_child
Summary: For as long as he could remember, Charlie had been playing – piano, guitar, electric bass. A look at his life and the love for music that he always had. Written forlostfichallenge#69: beginnings and endings.





	it was always about the music

**Author's Note:**

> written in one helluva hurry – my muse exploded again – so my apologies if it’s a bit rough.

Charlie remembers the first time he ever saw a piano – the antique monstrosity that sat in his Nana Stratton’s tiny front room and served more as a side table than as an instrument. It had belonged to Charlie’s great grandmother once, years ago and was due to be sold one of these days when the family got around to it.

Meghan Pace had brought both her sons over for a visit to their Nana Stratton and Charlie and Liam had obediently gone and given her a kiss. Soon enough the two adults were sipping tea and Liam was preoccupied with his toy cars and the chocolate biscuits that he was munching on.

Charlie was too restless to play though. He toddled around the cramped room, looking at everything but not touching as he had been instructed. He itched to reach out to touch the colourful, delicate ornaments that his grandmother collected but instead he just gazed hungrily, hands firmly behind his back.

At the front of the room stood the piano, covered in doilies and old photographs. Charlie stared at the polished old wood for a long time before coming up to it. He was barely tall enough to see the top of the lid that covered the old fashioned ivory keys. After touching curious fingers to the tarnished keyhole at the front he tried to lift the lid to discover what was underneath.

“Be careful,” his mother appeared out of nowhere, prising his hands away. “The lid’s too heavy for you to lift Charlie.”

“Issit?” he asked, staring at the piano and he remembered his mother smiling at him.

“It’s a piano Charlie. Would you like to see?”

He nodded and she sat him on the stool and lifted the lid. Charlie stared at the keys for a moment, mesmerised by the endless expanse of black and white and then he reached out and pressed down on one of the keys.

He gasped in delight at the rich, deep note that tumbled forth from the instrument. It was old and badly in need of a tune but at the age of four Charlie couldn’t hear how out of tune it was – and he didn’t care. He spent the remainder of the visit gently pressing the keys down, never more than one at a time and very time after that when they came to Nana Stratton’s Charlie’s first action after the obligatory kiss was to make a beeline for the piano and begin playing.

“You know Meghan,” Nana Stratton said one day as she watched him pressing diligently on the keys, repeating the same three notes again and again in what was undoubtedly a pattern. “You should really try him on lessons. I think he’d take to piano like a duck to water. You remember what my mother was like on that old thing.”

“You know we can’t afford it,” Meghan protested in a hushed whisper.

“Yes I know but dear…just look at him!”

When Charlie turned six his grandmother died unexpectedly in her sleep and the majority of her personal belongings were sold on. Meghan fought long and hard with her husband to keep the piano for Charlie but he wasn’t going to have a bar of it.

“A piano like that – antique and all?” he scoffed impatiently. “You’ve got rocks in your head if you think that our boys’ll get any real use out of it Meghan. We’ll get a bloody mint for it if we sell it!”

“Simon…”

“I don’t want to hear another word about it,” he said, his voice final.

Charlie listened from his vantage point on the stairs and then crept upstairs to the bedroom that he shared with his older brother. Liam was lying sprawled on his bed, all lanky long limbs as he read an old picture book.

“Mum and dad are selling Nana Stratton’s piano,” Charlie told him, curling his knees up to his chest. Liam glanced up from his book and shrugged.

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, thinking mournfully of the feel of the weathered ivory keys beneath his fingers. Just several weeks ago he had borrowed a book from the library at school and had started teaching himself how to read sheet music. Now he’d never learn how to play.

“Maybe you should play the old piano in the music room at school?” Liam suggested out of the blue and Charlie looked up, startled. “Mrs. Gregory might let you in at lunch break if you ask her nice.”

“Really?” Charlie said hopefully. “I’d like to keep on playing.”

Liam shrugged again and went back to his book, leaving Charlie with a deep seated excitement in his stomach.

~*~

  
Charlie remembers the first solo piano recital he ever did for school. He practiced religiously for days beforehand on the piano his mother had bought for him for Christmas. The night of the recital she dressed him up in the most ridiculous shirt – the best one he owned and he borrowed Liam’s black dress shoes. They were far too big for him and they made it hard to press the pedals on the piano but at least they looked dapper.

Despite how excited he was at performing for the first time, he was terrified as he stepped up onto the stage, the bright lights almost blinding him as the audience applauded him. He looked down at them all, his throat dry, and saw his mother, beaming and clapping in the front row, practically bursting with pride.

He smiled back at her shakily and then clambered onto the piano stool, rearranging his sheet music carefully before starting his first piece. When he’d finished playing two, three songs, he stood up and bowed and then stumbled off stage, his cheeks flushed with his success and just about fit to burst with pride.

He ran to his mother when she came to collect him after the show and she swept him into a hug and kissed him all over his face.

“Mummy did you see me?” he said, bouncing up and down, breathless in his excitement. “I was on the stage! I played all by myself!”

“I saw you Charlie,” she squeezed his shoulders tightly, her eyes bright. “You were wonderful darling!”

“Did dad see me too?” he asked and his mothers smile faltered slightly.

“No sweetheart,” she said regretfully. “He had to work back late at the shop.”

Charlie’s smile faded too when he heard that. “Oh.” He said in a small voice.

But before he could think about it, lots of parents came up and began to congratulate him on a wonderful performance, ruffling his hair and patting him on the back. He beamed up at them all as they gushed to his mother about how much talent he had and how he could be a great musician if he had the proper coaching.

Liam hovered jealously to one side, his face a mask of pure envy and the next day after school Charlie found one of his piano books ripped up in the middle of the floor and his older brother brooding in the lounge room. Charlie was too upset to even go to his mother and tell on Liam. Instead he came directly to him with the torn remnants of his book and simply asked why?

“I’m sorry,” Liam mumbled, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have. I just didn’t like you getting all the attention from mum. It didn’t seem fair – you’ve always been her favourite.”

“But mummy doesn’t have favourites,” Charlie frowned. “She loves us both the same Liam.”

Liam stared at his younger brother for a moment and then nodded.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry I tore up your book.”

“It’s okay,” Charlie told him, planting his arms around his brother’s waist and squeezing. “I know you didn’t mean to.”

Liam still looked guilty however and so Charlie offered to play him a song to cheer him up.

“Do that one you were playing yesterday,” Liam urged, his eyes sparkling. “The really tricky sounding one.”

Charlie opened up one of his books, sat at the piano his mother had bought him for Christmas and began to play but he hadn’t even gotten to the refrain when his father came slamming unexpectedly out of the kitchen from where he was preparing the meat for dinner, yelling and swearing about wanting some quiet time without that bloody piano clanking away in the background and how sick he was of listening to the same songs over and over again…

Terrified, Charlie and Liam fled upstairs, leaving the piano books abandoned as Simon Pace slammed the lid of the piano shut and then stomped back into the kitchen.

“I don’t think dad likes me playing the piano,” Charlie’s voice trembled and Liam put a comforting arm around his little brothers shaking shoulders. “Mum should’ve never bought it for me. He always gets angry at me when I play.”

“Don’t worry little brother,” he assured him. “I like it when you play and so does mum.”

Charlie smiled a little at that but he still felt sad. “I know. I just wish that dad liked it too.”

~*~

  
Charlie remembers the first song he ever wrote – some horrendous lovesick ballad about a girl in his class who he liked but was too shy to ask out. He wrote out the chords and lyrics in an old notebook as he strummed on his new guitar but he never played it for anybody else. It took him the better part of three years in fact, to get to a point where he felt comfortable with performing his original songs in front of anyone. He preferred to do covers of other people’s songs.

Until the day that Liam found his notebook.

“These lyrics are fantastic mate!” he said, waving it in his brother’s face. Charlie froze when he realised what it was that Liam had in his hand.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded.

“Found it in your stuff when I was looking for that shirt of mine you borrowed,” Liam said glibly. “But seriously Charlie – when are you planning to get off your arse and do something about all of this? Rod was talking to me about you the other day saying we should start up a little something, hit the local pubs you know? Get a bit of extra cash?”

“Pubs?” Charlie grimaced. “Liam I don’t want to be in a pub band…”

“Charlie,” Liam said with the air of someone trying to explain to an over emotional toddler that two plus two equals four. “You’re too good at this stuff to not do anything about it. You’re an idiot if you don’t, you know, _foster_ this talent that you’ve got. You’re practically a bloody musical genius!”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Geez Liam – it’s not like I’m Mozart or something.”

“Course not,” Liam said. “You don’t have one of those noncy wigs and knickerbockers like they all used to wear back then. But Charlie, honest to God mate, you’ve got loads of talent. You’d be stupid not to at least try!”

“Obviously you never heard the first few songs I wrote,” Charlie muttered, still embarrassed. “They were terrible.”

“But now your songs are better,” Liam pointed out. “These are hits in the making Charlie – you wait and see!”

When Driveshaft released their first album, the brothers opened the first box of CD’s together. Charlie’s eyes nearly popped out of his head although he tried hard to contain himself.

“This is bizarre,” he said, awed, as he picked up one of the plastic cases and flipped it over and over in his hands. “We have a _CD_ Liam.”

“Indeed we do!” Liam laughed and handed him a stack of them, his eyes misting over. “Driveshaft’s self titled debut album…I can just hear the magazine reviews now...”

But Charlie was frowning at something on the inside jacket of the CD. “Li?” he said. “How come it says that the songs were all written by Driveshaft? I wrote at least eight of them by myself...”

“It was just easier,” Liam shrugged. “Keeps the printing costs down you know?”

Charlie continued to frown down at the fine print but then Liam took the CD case out of his hand and gripped him by the shoulders.

“Look, we’re almost there baby brother,” he told Charlie, his eyes intense and focussed. “We can’t afford to waste any of our money now on trivial stuff like that. Later on down the track we’ll take the time to indulge in all the luxury stuff that comes with the territory – but for now we’re on a budget. Little things like that can cut the printing costs down an extra 50p for every CD.”

Charlie sighed. “I know. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Liam cuffed him affectionately on the side of the head. “They’re your songs Charlie boy. I get why you’re upset. You understand why we did it like that though yeah?”

“Yeah Liam,” Charlie sighed. “I understand.”

_It doesn’t mean that I like it though._

When they got the preliminary packaging for ‘Oil Change’ Charlie was hardly surprised to see that once again he didn’t get credit for the songs that he’d written. He never once said anything to his brother about it but he truly resented the fact that Liam had put his name up there alongside Charlie’s when all his older brother had ever written was a handful of lyrics.

~*~

  
Charlie remembers losing his guitar in the plane crash. It reminded him irresistibly of losing his piano – reminded him of how Liam had sold the beloved instrument that their mother had scrimped and saved for nearly two years to buy for him. He had been utterly heartbroken at that loss. Losing his guitar wasn’t quite so bad but it certainly came a close second.

The guitar that he’d taken with him to Australia was still fairly new but it was a favourite of his. He had written many a song on her and in a moment of drug fuelled whimsy had even named her – Ethel, after one of his old Aunts.

Locke finding it for him again was the closest thing to a miracle Charlie had ever known. As far back as he could remember his love for music had brought him a lot of bad luck and trouble. From Liam’s jealousy of his talent to their father’s open dislike of his son’s choice of career, from the lack of recognition Charlie received when he was in Driveshaft to the years of drugs and womanising that ended up leaving Charlie half alive, writhing and sweating his way through the worst withdrawal imaginable on the ground in a cave on some _sodding island in the middle of bloody nowhere_.

But if you’re born with music in your bones then there’s really nothing you can do to stop it from manifesting itself. If it wasn’t the guitar or the piano his hands would start going, tapping out staccato drum patterns on his knees or hips or the person next to him. More than once Charlie had to physically restrain himself from reaching out and beating out a gentle drum roll on Claire’s big pregnant tummy.

Somehow he didn’t think that she’d appreciate that very much.

At first Charlie was miffed at the apparent lack of interest in his band from the general populace of the island but in the end he just gave up on them all. Really he was just seeking validation from them, that he hadn’t been some one hit wonder – that he actually had been talented like everyone had always told him. He knew he was a fair musician but he obviously wasn’t the next hit sensation he had made himself out to be once upon a time.

And so he began playing for himself again. He wrote songs when he felt inspired and he was (by and large) happy with that. Claire didn’t hear him play his guitar until after the abduction but she was inordinately delighted when he broke out into an old David Gray song that she recognised. He spent close to three hours playing that afternoon, Claire occasionally joining in shyly to the songs that she knew.

“You’re really good!” she said in amazement when he finally put down the instrument and Charlie had actually blushed at the extravagant praise. “When did you learn how to play?”

“Years ago now,” he told her. “I started with piano and then learnt guitar and bass. I was in a band before we crashed here.”

“Really?” Claire tilted her head at him curiously. “What band? Would I have heard of it?”

Charlie laughed hollowly, his tongue thick in his mouth as he prepared to lie. “Probably not. We weren’t all that fantastic to tell you the truth. I always preferred to work solo as opposed to with a band. My brother Liam though – he wanted to be rich and famous.” He shrugged glibly. “I guess neither of us got our wish in the end.”

When the baby was born he sang lullabies and nursery rhymes and made up ridiculous songs that made Claire giggle. When she kicked him out he composed sombre ballads and good old fashioned angsty love songs that he never played for anybody but himself.

When Desmond began to see him dying he began to play other people’s songs again. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – put his feelings down into a song to be analysed and played with until he found the right words to say how scared he was, how alone he felt. When he did compose it was usually flimsy, insubstantial songs with no real meaning behind them.

If he’d written a song about it all he probably would have just fallen apart.

But even though he wasn’t writing so much anymore he found himself thinking a lot about his music. He thought about songs that he’d played, songs written by other musicians that were more talented than him – Oasis, The Beatles, The Kinks. He thought about instruments he’d played and experimented with – tribal flutes, African drums and once, an exquisitely beautiful antique violin.

He thought about the first song he’d ever learnt how to play on the piano – Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. A favourite nursery rhyme of children the world over. He found himself humming it as he fell asleep at night, sandwiched between Claire’s sleeping form and Aaron’s quiet cradle, gazing ever upwards at the vast expanse of the heavens.

Somehow, hearing his own voice, thin and warbling on the midnight air made the yawning, aching loneliness more bearable.

When Bonnie told him that the code to switch off the jamming equipment in the Looking Glass was programmed by a musician Charlie was flooded with the most amazing sense of purpose he’d ever felt. Desmond had been right – he was _meant_ to unblock this signal.

He was the only one who could have done it.

He’d always liked The Beach Boys.

He remembers the first time he listened to one of their albums as he hums Good Vibrations, punches in the numbers on the keypad, talks to Penny.

He remembers dancing around the living room to his favourite song on ‘Oil Change’.

He remembers busking on the streets of London.

He remembers touring with the band.

He remembers playing his guitar on the beach for Claire, for Hurley and Jin and Desmond.

From beginning to end, he was always about the music.


End file.
